Bizarre Frequencies


Jab AN aur AN ke beech mein J aata hai tab ANJAN banjata hai

Saturday, September 23, 2006

The Recluse

This is a monologue that I had written some tens of months ago. There was a monologue competition at the english club here last month, and I sent my entry. I won a prize for this. My faithful old readers might have read this on my old blog.
I never lost friends untill recently. I lost a friend a couple of weeks back. As in, I opted to unfriend myself for us to be happy. Today lost another friend. Was at the recieving end this time. I guess im meant to be a recluse, all my life. A recluse in a whirlwind. Read on....

With roof on top, he sits on the steps to play a game with the pillars. They say you sit, I would run. This is our game. What's there in a game? After all words. He picked up the straw and whipped in the air through the words. Little did he know that there were swords? What was he doing there when the baton of word symphony had twirled? I think he was sitting on the creaking chair and trying to rhyme with the howling wind. A cup of courage, twenty six letters, two hours and an inch of confidence is all you need to win a war. There is at-least more than one letter every minute. When he steps his foot on the ground, he quivered finding his quiver empty. The inch missing. Like a ball of hydrogen burning itself to death, burning itself to darkness. And no re-birth. Long walks, Meditation, Pshychedelia, Venting and Isolation. He has tried everything, every trick. Nothing has worked. Its not that here is no translation, it's just that there is absolutely nothing to translate. From Krypton to Xenon, he was robbed of his periodic table, also the tunes of jingle bells. Trillions of words scribbled on paper, etched on the rocks, painted on metal. He could jab only six. Why? Why did you take away those words? Rather why didn't you give me those words? Which gods and holy spirits reverted a due? He closed his eyes to imagine a closet when he had kissed victory. He saw darkness. He sieved the sand through his eyes. Pitch black. He gapes into it, searching for pinch he can bisect his prayers and rip apart his doom befallen in darkness. He bumps on the darkness, strangles it, kicks it to bust it. He opens his eyes, he gets busted. The darkness had rescinded the light. Standing by the mirror he sees the truth. He hates his eyes for what it sees, for what it has done to him. Withdrawn he wandered, terraced and drowned in a lake. He stares at his reflection and this time feels better. His image shattered he thinks the ripples have hidden the truth. The giant truth led him into the darkness, left him in the darkness and swallowed him in the infinite darkness. At his fate, he waits for the baiting sound of a knife cutting through a kraut in a vast expanse of infinite silence. He thinks that sound echoes one note, and the only one to the the pillars that have ceased to refuse. Drooling pessimism, I ask him to burn. Is that a only was to burn darkness? Little by little, bit by bit, even the tiniest bit of shred he burns to abandon the black, darkness encroaches him. He had shunned the world and built a roof with four pillars. Now raved in confusion he breaks the pillars, stands alone roofless. He rots anyway. Let him rot alone.

Posted by anjan :: 4:56 PM :: 15 comments

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